


Drabbles in the Middle of the Night

by lonelistar



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad Writing, Drabble, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-01-11 00:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18418976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelistar/pseuds/lonelistar
Summary: Just wanted to pen my thoughts down for people to listen to becauseHey we all get lonely lying in a cold bed at night, don't we :DHope y'all can find some... semblance of yourself in this and enjoy despite plonking down a huge dis-organised mess (i mean honestly I'm a bad writer I'm sorry)





	1. Prism

Sometimes his mind was bright yellow. Everything was a frenzy, colors here and there, memories and random images flitting through at the speed of light. Everything. Extra. Too much.

_His emotions felt like a mess too._

"Kill me," he yells in a fit of desperation. Like all the times before, he struggles and writhes on the cold floor, so badly wanting an escape from his mind and feelings. "Just kill me already, if this is what it feels like to live this life I don't want it, I don't want this love, I don't want it, Idontidontidontidont not anymore," and she holds him close. She feels his tears soak into her shirt, he screams some more, keeps on screaming as he squirms violently trying to hit himself back on the wall. Eventually, he was reduced to a pathetic, weeping mess, lying in her lap and sobs occasionally wracking through his body.

 

Sometimes his mind was red. Everything was soaked in that shade, drowning in a sea of his life force, and he was there trying to stay afloat. Everything. Useless. Too much again.

_If only getting rid of emotions was as easy._

The blade is there, his hand forcing it down on his skin. Breaking it layer by layer, and eventually even his vision starts swimming in a red sea. He cries too, curled up and sobbing like a child. She reaches too late. She screams, she tells him to stop, but he can't. He trembles and she holds him tight once again, as the redness diffuses into her clothes. Ironic how his eyes look so pretty glittering bright with tears, shimmery tracks across his skin marking his pain. _His ugly self. His messed up mind._ Everything beautiful is cursed to go through misfortune at some point in time. Call it fate perhaps, call it life. He doesn't really care anymore, not when he doesn't feel like he belongs anywhere, not even in her arms.

 

Sometimes his mind was black. Pitch dark, empty, devoid of completely anything. Lost in a maze without any light, any clue, any hope. Everything. Meaningless.

_What are emotions? Do I know them, do I remember them?_

"The ceiling is painted pastel blue. It's pretty. She's pretty too. This bed is nice and soft." Random words that smoothly exit his mouth, as he lies down staring into nothing. Then at some point where he can't find the words anymore, his tears find him. Still, she comes back, she lies beside him, closes his eyes for him, lulls him to a peaceful, dreamless slumber with her gentle and warm touches. But when he wakes up - he can't find anymore meaning in her warm embrace, her soft words.  _The word "love"._ He feels so lost, so alone, with nobody to give him the answers. So he lets the tears fill his empty soul up, because she can't. _Not like she still actually cares, not like she isn't already sick and tired of him._ He knows, one day she will leave. He waits for the day when she will finally give up on him and he will finally be allowed to let go. He doesn't know if he wants her. But at least he knows she doesn't want him and he doesn't want himself either. It is enough for him. So he waits patiently, for the day he can leave forever and be free from this pain.

 

His mind came to a stop.

_Maybe emotions were nothing after all._

Eventually one day, she doesn't come back for him. Not when he is in the throes of his frenzied state, when he is barely breathing and staying alive, until he is finally completely drained. He feels his tears again, he uses his last bit of strength to press down the silver metal one last time. He can't breathe properly anymore, there isn't any point now that she's gone forever. He knows he should have given up long ago, but he held on. Or maybe she was the one who stubbornly refused to let him go, he still didn't know. His mind was, is, and always will be a huge mess. Would it have been easier? He questions himself All he knows is that: it's time for him to go.

 

_It was yellow. It was bright._

_It was red. It was beautiful._

_It was black. It was cold._

_In the end, everything dissolves into black, everyone gives in to emptiness._


	2. butterfly, flower

Butterflies: beautiful and graceful, but wings so fragile and light; becoming an ethereal being from its once tiny form and learning to be free

Flowers: pretty and exquisite, some intricate some simple; growing from a young bud but wilting eventually, with no hope of being everlasting

The question is, who was the butterfly and who was the flower in this relationship?

 

He had a hobby - to write. He recorded down every little thing, every small word, every seemingly insignificant thought that arose in his mind. A deep dark maroon red for the beautiful lies and a pale elegant lavender for the precious few truths. A deep black for his bad thoughts and a pale sky blue for the good ones. A light green for the things and people he felt grateful for and a bright red for his troubles. His insignia, he thought, was a butterfly resting lightly on a flower. A pine flower to be precise, embodying  _hope_. Despite its impermanence, it grew on evergreen trees and after withering became pine cones. Pines were tall and stately, he felt. Like a guardian watching over him.

When he met her, his first impressions were: otherworldly, elegant, and so, so, undeserving of someone as clumsy and careless as him. Yet he wanted her so badly, she was so beautiful he couldn't take it. He loved beautiful things after all and had an addiction to collecting them and although he saw the beauty in everything, he had never met someone... like her. He had to have her and he would keep trying until she came to him. He wanted to be her flower, and for her to be his butterfly to come to him. He would be happy if she was here, his life would be brightened by her appearance.

 

Or so he thought.

 

Love was a strange and cruel thing after all. She flew to him at first, was willing and pliant to his requests; to stay a little longer, to spend more time with him, to have her meals and do their projects together. But after awhile, she didn't want to be there for him anymore. Whether it was to help him when he was sensitive and down, or simply to spend time with him. She drifted, she flew away from him, as he wilted even more.

As time passed, he wilted more and more. What was this pain... this... fear he didn't understand? He felt the pain in beauty for once, he now was learning to be scared of love. If this was what it meant to love, he... didn't want it. Not anymore. Yet he still kept calling for her, kept feeling the pain of being apart from her, kept yearning and  _pining_ for her. Why did he feel so bad, why couldn't he let go? It hurt so bad, yet he still hung on. He felt himself slipping from reality and from the people around him. He wanted to stop thinking and to stop feeling, he couldn't understand why he couldn't let go of something hurting him.

 

Eventually she gave up on him and flew away, forever. The night she left, he lay on his bed alone for the first time in what felt like forever. He was going to give her a bouquet of flowers, to ask her to stay, to promise he would change and to beg her to change too. But now he changed his mind.

He plucked the petals of the roses one by one. Roses and jasmines: his wish for their love to be everlasting. How ironic it was that this love was so impermanent. Maybe she had never loved him in the first place, maybe. He scattered the petals around him, and breathed in their scent. It would be the last night he would want her, he told himself. He would be happy if she was happy too, she wouldn't need him or to worry about him. They had become a memory, and would stay a memory. It was over, it was the past, since she had stopped caring he would stop too. It was fine. Everything was fine.

He got up and started packing. He wrote a letter to her, full of different colors, and placed one of his precious beautiful pine cones on it. His memory would be there, everlasting, unlike their love.

 

He walked out the door that day, carrying his luggage of things. Pressed flowers, mirrors, notebooks, pictures, a jar of folded paper stars and cranes, his windchimes and dreamcatchers. As he made his way to the bridge leading to the airport, he cried. For the loss of his love, for having tried so hard to no avail. He would leave. He would set her free. He would be free.

He stared down into the water under the bridge and stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> colors are impt n rmb them for the end!!


	3. Chapter 3

01:13 - in the middle of the night

 

the entire dorm building was dark, and quiet. save for the lamps still lit in the streets and the crickets chirping in the clear air.

save for one computer in one room.

 

he was awake again, rushing homework. exams were coming up, but- look at him, still doing overdue homework. how pathetic, he thought to himself. statistics, the one thing you know you're absolute crap at, and you had to procrastinate until it was overdue by  _a whole month_. might as well not get any marks now, might as well just score a 0. it wasn't even worth that much.  _just like you_ _._

he stared at the bright screen blankly for awhile. numbers and figures were swimming in his vision and his mind was so clouded he couldn't even think of what to do next. all he knew was he was stuck and nobody was here to help him. living without a roommate sure was tough, huh. but everyone had found others anyways. what was the point in trying anymore?

after a minute, he propped his knees up onto his chair and put his head down. he could feel himself being on the brink of tears. why was math so frustrating? why were statistic reports so dumb and difficult to write? why was excel being a bitch? he didn't know.  he was tired. right, just tired. even though he had been having headaches and falling asleep in classes, yet he always felt tired. he was living on anxiety and worry, and if he didn't get pulled out soon, he would cave in on himself. but there was no one.

 

he looked up and his eyes fell on his pencil-case.  _his scissors._

 

it had been 5 months. he thought he had gotten better. he was better than this, he could be better than this, he knew he was better than what they all thought he was. he had not stooped so low for so long, to seek satisfaction in the pain he could inflict upon himself.

_but it offered so much, it was better than so much too. better than guilt, better than regret. better than hopelessness, better than uselessness. better than temporary happiness, better than hope. better than everything and nothing._

 

he was still a coward after all.

"still using your old scissors, eh? not gutsy enough for a penknife or a proper blade, huh."

 

like a clockwork doll, he reached out his trembling hand slowly for the scissors.

 

he spread the blades, taking one side in his hand and pointing the other down on his right wrist. it was almost as if he was enchanted, really. the memories of how it stung and how bright red, how  _pretty and satisfying_ that stunning color was. he wanted to feel again, to feel something other than stress and anxiety and depression.

he pressed the blade down and started drawing. as he drew, tears started dripping out of his eyes. he couldn't help it. this was his punishment for himself, for being so worthless, for being a burden to his parents and friends and teachers, for being so desperate for comfort. he had nobody anyways. no one would notice, he could suffer alone, he could deal with it alone. he didn't know anymore. he had his jacket, he had his blade, it was enough.

 

3 cuts. 3 times. that was all he limited himself to. but it was enough.

 

he stared down at the slowly swelling lines in a daze. then, as if nothing happened, he went back to work.

nobody needed to know, really.

he felt much better.

he could keep going like this.


End file.
